Life is Art

My sprits have been slightly dampened all morning. I wasn't sure why, off and on, but then I kept remembering the email from my mom I read this morning.

David is having a hard time in chemo therapy. His physical reactions to his chemo are not pleasant, he has an awful rash that has him breaking out with awful acne like symptoms, his nose trickles with blood/snot much of the time, and his hair is coming out in bunches. I think some self loathing has him depressed. This depression isn’t constant, but apparent. We are still looking for a [special medicine] source for his attitude adjustment, but we are so out of the loop, we are at a loss. Sometimes the poor guy seems like he is drifting away from me, and I don’t feel equipped for this job. Well, I may be, but I feel like I lack some skills.

This sounds worse than it really is, but these are the worrisome things that haunt our days.

"Sounds worse than it really is", huh? At 11 PM last night when she wrote that email she'd probably had a few drinks and therefore the disclosure level in the first paragraph is probably her "true" inner feelings. The last sentence is her retreat back to her normal, "everything is fine, don't scrutinize my life for problems please" stance.

So yeah, other than that, everything's going great here.

Hey, did you ever watch and enjoy the original Star Trek? Well, I don't like to judge, but pretty much everything I see here makes me want to puke blood straight out my nose. Like, for instance here. And I'm not sure what-all is going on here. This is also rather dreadful on a couple very important levels.

As horrible as I'm feeling now after being victimized by this link (thanks, Ralph!), I'm rather impressed by what appears to be a rather exhaustive archive.

On the more palatable side, here is a movie from my all-time favorite blog. Enjoy!

I'm feeling way less bitchy about my farm workshare these days, but it is still a big change in what was my normal routine. For starters, it's a satisfyingly exhausting day; one that is marked by literally no spending (OK, one $2 coffee in the AM), lots of physical work and sun, good, fresh food for my family (in meals and in take-home produce), and a run-around for my children. So this morning I got myself and my kids up and fed, dressed, sorted out, and handed off to their dad to get delivered to their respective loving care (not me, sheesh!). Then I drove out to the Farm, toiled through my workday, received my children midway through (thanks, Abbi!) ate lunch, and brought the kids home. At 2 PM I pulled into the driveway and hauled in the kids and stuff in from the van (including lovely, lovely fresh-picked spinach and bok choy) then cleaned the living room and kitchen, bathed the kids, washed, dried, and folded laundry, swept, scrubbed the kitchen floor on hands and knees, and layed out fresh clothes for the wee ones. Then I put the children down for a nap, sat down, and my eyes rolled back in my head I was so worn out. An hour or so later I clawed myself back to work: creating the phone list for the Farm to mail out to the participants (a job I volunteered for).

Most of the farm work this time in the season involves weeding, thinning, and transplanting. This translates to squatting, kneeling, and of course, running your mouth with your cofarmers (I am an expert at the latter, if little else). Today after our two-hour fieldwork I got a very nice compliment. A group of us were thinning a few beds of carrots - carefully pulling tiny threadlike tendrils out of the earth on our knees - and I was, as usual, blah blah blah with all my great "wisdom" on parenting and marriage. Anyway, at breaktime one of my cohorts, a mother of three grown children, fell into step with me. As we made our way up the hill for our break, she said, "I'm proud of you. You have amazing communication skills. You aren't going to be one of those fussy neurotic martyred mothers. You're a healthy model for your children."

I was a bit staggered by such a lovely compliment, but I accepted it well (I thought). At the same time I felt wary - probably because my distaste for "neurotic martyred mothers" is such a driving force that sometimes I worry I am developing unhealthy habits in reaction to that antipathy. Like the deliberately non-competitive attitude I attempt to take regarding their behavior, or when I let any stranger in a white van take my kids for a joyride (just to be on the "relaxed" side). I'm kidding, I'm kidding! But yeah, if there's one Motherly Trait I don't have, it's Martyrdom.

So, included in my self-assigned phone list duty today was (necessarily) reading over everyone's entry paperwork to mine their email and phone number data. I get a kick out of reading "surveys" and the like, and today was no exception. The prize would have to go to one participant who filled out literally nothing except her first name, the date, and a cross notation that she is "allergic to wheat, oats, rye, barley, milk, chocolate!", scribbled in the margin. No phone number, no commitment to specific duties, no word on kitchen expertise. And apparently, allergic as Ass to basically anything you would cook with. Good luck with that. Especially since, you know, I don't know who you are or how to find you and on what days I should be careful what to cook for you.

And finally, here is my top rating for Overheard Kid Story of the Day (from R.):
5 year old brother: "Mom, let's go drive by So-and-so's and see the baby horses!"
3 year old sister (meanly): "They're dead!

My kids have been taking me to Where The Flavor Is, if by that I mean, "to that place where I want to kick some ass furiously and indiscriminately". Normally both kids don't misbehave at the same time - you have at least one Good Kid to take refuge in - but my kids have been at it for days. I think it started early in the week when Sophie gave Nels a drink of milk while he was in his crib, and apparently (I was in the shower; Ningo was having his "book time" in his crib which usually keeps him from wreaking violence on my home) he calmly drank his milk then threw down the glass as if he was smashing a steel chair on the back of a Mexican wrestler. I come in to find a tangled mess of baby blankets and broken glass under the crib. I just wanted to beat his ass.

Perhaps I am getting punished / reminded of a little Reality since May is Foster Care Awareness Month and I had this slight inclination to consider how caring for other children might fit into my life. My kids are promptly sensing this internal query and upping me with an, "OK, sure, take on some more responsibility - and we will be here to shake the kitten to death / jam our fingers in the DVD player / terrorize any new charge you have" etc.

In other news, things are easing up a bit. Today is payday, which means that in my near future I will be experiencing a larger toilet paper ration, good coffee, and olive oil. I am breathing a big, big sigh of relief as we have respite from our Inter-Tron problems. Ralph is slowly creeping away on my sewing website and it's looking great. He also got his latest film done, with local stars Ted and Dan hitting eachother with... cardboard tubes. Still, I'm proud of my guy. Making a movie is hard to do, especially one with such edgy material.

And now - back to the Horrid Ones.

Rhody weekend. Is it worth it? Very exhausting. I'm typing this after today's events, which include a 7 1/2 mile run for Ralph and about a third of that for my dad, Sophie, and I. This was followed by a fall-down nose-scrape for Nels (my parents are 3 for 3 in injuries / traumas to The Boy when I have left him in their care - but this is the subject of another post), a giant Mexican meal at La Isla in town, goodbyes to the 'rents, and finally, naps for the kids and housecleaning for Ralph and I. Now we have about an hour before my friends' two children arrive to suffer under our care for three hours while their parents get a date.

A recap of Thursday's pet parade:

She is not fucking around. As it turned out, we were second in the whole parade, humiliatingly sorted to the "Most Unusual" pet category (dumb because there is exactly nothing unusual about a spider, no matter how large and / or gross).


Just in case the audience couldn't see inside the steamy, sweaty jar where the poor spider crouched in terror, Sophie carried this sign. We did a catch and release after the parade was over, and now he / she lives uptown. Both my kids said, "Bye!" and even stroked the spiders silky body and legs in farewell. Ew.


My family in a kiddie ride. I love the look of the poor saps on the other side of the "jail", yearning for a trip to Vomittown, USA. Nels loved the ride and indeed this was the only one he experienced; Ralph and I weren't willing to sit with him on any others.


Sophie sliding down the huge, speedy, motherf*cking slide thing I am too scared to go on myself. I always have a nightmarish fear I'll some how fly off the slide and into outer space in some way. Low-grade agoraphobia I guess. This picture doesn't give credit to how fast she was going or how high she started. My little girl!

Saturday night after a labor-intensive day including feeding company, the Rhody parade, lunch, naps, and potluck dinner, I am finally in the bathroom with my kids. I've given them baths and their hair and skin are shiny and clean. I brush Sophie's teeth, then Nels follows suit. Both kids are delighted to open their mouths W-I-D-E and let me work on their tiny, perfect little pearly teeth. Nels, being a boy, or maybe just gross - or both - is a master at spitting. I can tell not a single speck of toothpaste is swallowed as he leans over the sink and expectorates with lip-flapping gusto. Our bedtime routine feels right and is just as calming to me as it is to them. To sleep. To another day of playtime tomorrow.

I watched one of my favorite movies again the other day - as a result, I've had Roy Orbison's "In Dreams" stuck in my head (the song played during two of my favorite scenes). Man, I wish I could belt it out like that old geezer could. I also (fervently) wish my life always had a creepy undertone like that in Blue Velvet. A girl can dream...

In about thirty-five minutes my kids and I are catching the bus to Brinnon to meet up with my parents for dinner. I hope, hope to the Sweet Lord above, my youngest child chooses to sleep in a sweetly-smelling, sweatly little pile in my arms. Instead of climbing all over me, kicking me in the face, and attempting to pull the "stop" cord constantly (his current favorite transit-riding pasttime).

Only time will tell.

Sophie, yesterday morning, on her way to school. Oh, but what's that in the jar? Let's take a closer look:


Meet "Bathtub", Sophie's new pet. Bathtub may look smallish at first but please notice in this photo the size as compared to my toddler's finger. She attempted to catch this spider by hand in our laundry room. After surpressing the urge to vomit, I butched up and caught it myself (acting very casual all the while). She insisted on taking it to school and tried to sleep with it during yesterday's nap. Today? Another visit to school (it's jar returned with the lid taped closed), and a spot in the kiddie parade lineup.


My exchanged Mother's Day gifts from my own mom arrived yesterday as well. Thank you! Now all I need to match my classy earrings is, um, classy anything else.


This is the first in many very sweet but rather assy-looking surprise projects I can expect delivered to me via my children's school projects. This project was from a few weeks ago when the kids were studying seeds and plants. As modest as this little planter is, still, she's doing a better job gardening than Ralph (compost, my dear man, compost!).


Despite what you see in the photo here, the evil one is the one on the left. I believe Ralph is on his way to a BBQ in this picture. Look at Nels: we are a hoodie family. Let me tell you about my hoodie sometime!

Mother's Day and I woke to:

• Husband up and dressed with The Boy (he dressed my son in a kilt, no less) while Sophie and I slept in
  
• Breakfast, coffee, and the paper
• Huge banner in living room: "Happy Mother's Day!"
• Ralph spent the morning before I woke up coaching Nels to say, "I love you, Mama!"
• Flowers and homemade card, with a sweet (and private) missive inside
• Mother's Day dinner potluck at Chetzemoka Park
• 3rd annual Mother's Day "booze-'n'-schmooze" at the Manresa Castle with eight girlfriends
  

For my part, I worked like a madwoman on a sewing job which almost made me a nervous wreck. Perhaps the best thing my husband did for me Sunday was to maintain his good humor even as I engaged in obsessive behavior (I prefer the term "goal-oriented").

Thank you, sweet family of mine.

I am a glutton for punishment when it comes to the farm workshare I'm doing. A good half the time you see me out there you can count on it that I am filled with a low-grade hate - or at least a smoldering, unresolved irritation - as I attempt to, say, dig a furrow for peas while my child cries and whines and wanders sadly through small seedlings where I then have to drop my hoe and run over to him and try to find some way to entertain him (in a field of dirt) so I can get back to doing my work and other workers are asking, "Awwww... Is he not feeling good?" and I'm thinking, "This is a lame and boring fucking morning for a two-year old!"... um, yeah - just for instance, that's something that irritates me. Anyway, I am somewhat relieved to find that, although in so many ways I don't seem to fit in with my chosen part time occupation, at least the leadership is solid. The farmers running the show know what they are doing (for the most part), they teach the ignoramuses (me) well, and they are completely understanding regarding the limitations of workers with young 'uns (again, me).

It occurred to me today that there may be other benefits - besides the challenge of doing something you dislike and are no good at, and the free vegetables - to my dirt-scrabbling vocation: Men. It took several weeks for this to occur to me because there are three distinct and limited species of men where I work. One: the patriarch running the farm and his boychild; two: gentle, California-transplanted silverbacks in clogs and sunhats (I'm not kidding, this is an actual species); and three: the intern boys. The two interns are hard-working, ablebodied, and friendly (it's early in the season yet, cynicism hasn't set in) so they provide a bit of a boost to our work ethic (they are the ones to get assigned the really tough stuff, nail shit together for whatever reason, or drive any kind of land-mashing motorized equipment) and offset a largely female staff. As for any sexual titillation to be had, this is a dubious concept at best, the possibility of which is marginally improved by the adrenaline from hard work outdoors, caffeine-withdrawal delirium (the farm houses only herbal tea), and minor sunstroke. Today as we had our morning break one of these boys* fanned his shirt over his sweating face as he delivered an address to the group and I noticed with a minor interest that he had one of those work-hardened bodies - you know, when you can see the muscles in the area beneath his chest and above his groin (check on it, folks - how many guys you know can you say that about?). I confess, I had a moment of nostalgia. His physique, imperfect as it was, nevertheless told a story of a young(ish) man who still holds down a labor job happily, while the annihilating forces of beer, marriage, (your wife's) rich food, (your wife's) pregnancies, and TV are slight or nonexistent influences.

Why would I even notice a man I work with, let alone spend a (brief) moment contemplating him as so much beefcake? Maybe it's because the only men I ever talk to are A. related to me by blood or marriage, or B. related to my girlfriends by marriage (believe me, you have to be careful on that last count). Getting an eyeful at the office isn't a bad thing, especially if you haven't had an office in years. At any rate, not that long ago I was working fulltime surrounded by men in a blue collar environment: men of all ages, all sizes, and a vast variety of lewdness, body hair, and personal hygiene. Men married, single, or in the process of divorce misogynism (curiously concomitant with merciless sexual advances toward their sole female crew member). I guess there's a part of me that miss those days, and there's a large part of me that misses them for the XY chromosomes.

I think I had a larger point here, one that got lost in all the mental sexual harassment of an innocent young man. Whoops!

* I have finally arrived at the age where I can reasonably start referring to many males I run across as "boys". I am 29, and although one of the "boys" at the farm is, I believe, slightly older than me, the term still applies. What makes him a boy? For one thing, he is most likely unmarried, has no children, hasn't settled down in any way that term means traditionally (living in a tent on a farmstead doesn't count), whereas in the recent five years I have trucked many of those roads, much to my personal transformation. And frankly, I have waited long to be the type of woman who makes sexually aggressive or knowing comments about men, referring to them in a quasi-maternal manner and getting a chuckle out of it. Now that I'm even close to an age where this makes sense, I relish the practice.

Another weekend, eaten up. Highlights include:

• Cinco de Mayo dinner w/Crecca and Anderson female-families
• Ft. Worden hike (for a fucking change!)
• BBQ with the Hayes ladies
  
• Sewing Suse 2 pairs of pants
• Movie with Sara

I rarely post pictures of me here. Mostly because, um, I'm often the one taking the picture, so... Anyhoo, here's a couple Ralph nailed this weekend (ones that did not meet his new Flickr-Snob Quality Control):


Near bedtime, just after Ralph had pulled both kids off me. This is about how cozy I felt. I wear giant pants to bed and it feels good.


Comforting Sophie after a setback at the Fort ("setback" being I challenged her to a race and won. Hey, I'm not going to slow down just because she's a couple decades behind me in motor skill development). Saturday we had matching hair, which I thought she would like. Instead, when she noticed this she told me "Don't ever do that again." Whoops. The first in many, many "Mom you suck so bad for your ideas in general" moments between mother and daughter. But guess what? If only one of us gets cute hair, it gets to be me, because I'm the one who knows how to do it. Again, I win.

My son is underslept and getting over his cold, and I'm going to just translate that straight out for my readers: he's being a jerk. Of course, it isn't really that bad to me, because I've already done time with a two-year old and I know the drill.* This morning he hangs off the side of the bed and scrabbles his hands against my leg, beseeching me to pull him up next to me. However, I'm doing a sewing repair on a stuffed animal for Sophie, so I say, "Not right now, Nels - go have Daddy pick you up." Apparently this is the most insulting, demeaning thing I could have possibly said: he throws his head back and howls as he staggers around the bed to his father's arms instead. This morning I counted, and it seemed like about every fourth decision pertaining to him invoked a similar response.

So today after the kids had played on their computer in the attic (their play mostly involves Nels watching Sophie kick ass at their Nemo's Underwater Adventure video game or the blippy cheerfulness of TuxPaint) they came thundering down the steps and Sophie apparently had the gall to elbow him aside. Again, the angry howl as he flung himself into the living room behind her. "Sophie, Nels is in a bad mood today," I raise my voice after her, "so please don't push him like that." She doesn't acknowledge my request and instead runs into the living room and flops on the couch:

"I'm dead." she pronounces, and goes limp.

I have two choices: I can really drill the point home about her brother with the "don't be rude" speech, or I can decide she gets the message and give her some slack. In this instance, I choose the second option. I sit down next to her and say, "Oh no! My little girl is dead. I have to get her dressed, though. We're going on a hike this morning. Maybe we can take her up to the Fort with us and bury her there." Through closed eyes she radiates intense approval with the line I'm taking.

I carry her into her bedroom and tenderly lay her on the covers. Her body remains perfectly flaccid. I pick out clothes, dress her, all the while handling her "corpse" carefully. Besides a few helpful arm lifts and shifting her feet to get them in her Converse, she doesn't smile or make a sound or even flutter her eyelids. I prop her up and proceed to fix her hair in two buns on the top of her head. She leans back against my chest. Her limbs are wonderfully heavy. Done dressing her, I lay her out on the couch and my husband puts a "death shroud" around her. Twenty minutes go by as we pack up the other child, the diaper bag, snacks, and I put my own hair up as well. Finally, we're ready to go and I carry her out to the truck.

It occurrs to me how nice it must feel to be only four years old but able to maintain perfect stillness and be the master of her own body. It also must have been nice to have the whole family play along (except Nels who from his car seat yells, "Hi Sophie!" - prounounced "Dophie" - which finally causes her to give up the ghost and come back to life). Self-control is a concept that must be practiced to be mastered, but saves one a lot of suffering if they learn it. I like to think her reserves run deep in that regard.

For the rest the morning while on our hike she is the intrepid leader, refusing to wear a coat, and darting off any trail she pleases. She helps her brother over tree roots and out of bushes when he gets trapped.

As I type this, my children are napping and my husband is "out for a quick two miles" jogging. I've been at various stages of physical fitness and mobility, but at this point in my life I'd rather clean my toilet than haul myself two miles on the streets of Port Townsend (note to self - I really do need to clean the toilet).

* Sometimes I feel bad for my oldest; she gets to be my Trial And Error Child, one who's hijinks and bad behaviors are more likely to be jumped on and worried over. Second Child seems to gets a lot more understanding around these parts. Not to mention he's do damn cute when he's on a tirade.

The phone rings at 2:30. It's Steph.

"Hello," she breathes sexily. "I've got gin."

My stomach sinks. Bad enough I've been sadly realizing I'm going to do what's best for The Boy and stay home this afternoon, thereby ditching my tentative afternoon plans with her. Worse still that I haven't located her phone number, leaving her to call me to find this out. Now apparently in the absence of hearing from me she has changed the plan from roadtrip / shopping trip to a G & T afternoon at her place (an upgrade, to my way of thinking). Damn. I am a shit.

She gets as far as asking if I'll pick up the tonic when I drop the bomb. I'm staying home. Briefly, visions shimmer before my eyes of driving out there anyway, enjoying myself, letting my napless kids run around, throwing Nels down in the crib to sleep, or not, having a few smokes in the sun with my dear gal pal, and coming back home to cook barbecue with a nice little buzz on. But I think of Nels at the beach this morning: sleeping on my chest, hot, worn out, and underfed. It ain't right.

So instead I will stay home, put the kids down for their naps, wash dishes, give the carseats a deep clean (the florae and fauna that will develop in these things boggles the mind), and in general do all that Mom stuff that keeps everyone fed, clean, and comfortable.

Leaving my friend stranded at home with her napping child. Friendless and, apparently, mixerless.

I am a shit.

Due to my son's symptoms of illness after our weekend adventure - and the nasty-sounding wheezing he woke with on Tuesday - I did indeed follow up with a doctor's appointment yesterday afternoon. Turns out his lungs and ears are fine and all we need to do is hydrate him, try to feed him, and wait it out. Good enough, except the visit to the doctor's office cost me my ass in terms of piece of mind. The Boy himself was cranky and ill-disposed to any prodding, weighing, and scoping activities (he voiced his protests by thrashing, yelling, crying, and in general being a shit). And whatever brilliant, sedate little assistant Ralph described my daughter as in their Urgent Care visit the night before, my Sophie was less helpful and more, well, four years old.

The doctor seemed to add some nervous energy of his own to the equation. He attempted to gain my son's trust by plying a magazine and discussing the pictures (a National Geographic featuring the cheery and child-friendly subjects of Hurricane Katrina aftermath and computer-renderered carnivorous dinosaurs mauling fish). He took a "stern" tone at my two-year-old. He flapped his hands at the kids and said things like, "OK we're going to stop playing and calm down now" in that voice I've always inwardly cringed at when I've heard myself use it - a wussy, I'm-pretending-I'm-the-boss-but-nobody's-really-fooled thin whine (like a last-ditch attempt from an antelope facing a pair of jackels). My children turned their bright, reddened, malevolent eyes on him and proceeded to tear the examination room to shreds under his nose. I did my best to control them and actually discuss my child's condition with the physician. But the next time I looked up he'd speedily vacated the room (I practically saw dust in the air), leaving the door open as if to say, "Get your sorry ass and your sickly brats out of here!".I didn't blame him one bit.

At least now I'm home, nursing a still-grouchy boy with a runny nose, begging him to drink water, and enjoying the increased cuddling opportunities.

"Things are looking up for the Hogabooms."

The saga of my recent trip down to my parents' home, in retrospect, is one of those, "let us never speak of it again" episodes. Included in the mild trauma are the following events:

• Epic arguing with spouse during weekend
• While driving to parents' on Sunday, intense break-out of hive-like blisters on hands
• 2 kids getting more and sick as we stayed
• One child (Nels) with croupy cough, fever, and up-all-night needs (two nights in a row)
• On return trip, tire blowing out (one sick child and one sleeping child in tow)*
• Immediately upon return, husband traveling to Urgent Care to have stitches on hand (dishwashing accident)

Ralph took Sophie to the doctor's so she could watch the stitches. She chatted the nurses up as they fixed Ralph - discussing blood, sleletons, and her vast anatomical "knowledge" to a great degree. They didn't realize they were getting a visit from a specialist in the field. At least his injury brought us the fun bonus of Vicodin. Last night after the kids got in bed my husband took one and was immediately, comically, loopy.

This is the third "needs stitches" event in the Hogaboom household since the New Year.

My mom and I spoke on the phone today and we both felt bad that the visit had been so hard. My mom said it was because Ralph wasn't there. This irritates me because I have my two kids by myself all the time and usually it doesn't kick my ass. I blame an utter lack of appropriate two-year-old activities in my parents' home (Nels was literally throwing or breaking something if you turned your back) and the fact the kids got sick and I got no sleep. Bad combo.

This week: playschool, a farm workday, a barbecue or two. What could possibly go wrong?

* You haven't lived if you haven't changed a tire alongside a highway with the shoulder so shallow you are actually in the road with your back towards screaming log trucks. It gives you a real appreciation for the gift of life (as you loosen lugnuts and chant to yourself, "Please God, please God, please God..."). After twenty minutes of this my life was spared in the form of help from a man and son duo who showed up in a minivan, practically knocked me off my tire, and finished the job. They were driving off before my heart had stopped beating a frenzy.